


Sliding Into Second

by whatthefoucault



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Baseball, Beardy Bears, M/M, Making Out, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Soft Stucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21937717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: “Stevie,” said Bucky, his voice tinged with a tired sort of fondness, “you’re a good man, and I know you’d never use the former Captain America's name for something as trivial as, oh I dunno, VIP seats right behind home plate, but…”... in which the fellas go to a baseball game.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 8
Kudos: 111
Collections: Stucky Secret Santa 2019





	Sliding Into Second

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sxndythinkstoomuch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxndythinkstoomuch/gifts).



> I channelled all of my knowledge of baseball into this Secret Santa Story for my holiday giftee - I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

The sun was not kind that day.

Steve squinted down onto the field. Even with his near-flawless eyesight, the players jogging about on the grass looked more akin to little grey ants than large, athletic men.

“Stevie,” said Bucky, his voice tinged with a tired sort of fondness, “you’re a good man, and I know you’d never use the former Captain America's name for something as trivial as, oh I dunno, VIP seats right behind home plate, but…”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t,” Steve grinned. “I mean, if you sort of lean this way, you can just about make out that there are players on the field.”

Steve craned his neck dramatically to the left of the large post blocking their view. He had been in an especially nostalgic mood when he had selected a pair of semi-obstructed nosebleed seats for them, recalling the precious couple of times back in the day when he and Bucky would get to see a Dodgers game, making their way down to Ebbets Field and cramming into the bleachers so far away from the action they were practically in Bensonhurst.

If they had to pick a team to root for, Steve supposed, then his loyalties lay with the Mets: granted, they were no Brooklyn Dodgers, but no one had been a Brooklyn Dodger for a good sixty some-odd years, so he was told.

(Whatever contingencies Nick Fury had prepared himself for on waking Steve from his long slumber, Steve was sure he had not expected the barrage of emotionally-charged swears that followed when he broke the news that the Dodgers were no more.)

Bucky was just polishing off his jumbo cup of soda when all hell broke loose on the field: players bounding hither and thither after the ball as it bounced across the field, while the opposing team’s batter made a desperate run for the home plate. Steve’s hands curled into tight fists as he watched and waited, and at last... the batter was out.

Except that the umpire called him safe.

“Oh please,” protested Steve, throwing up his hands in exasperation, “he should have been out!”

“You sure about that?” asked Bucky, whose deadpan delivery almost (but not quite) concealed what Steve was sure was the teeny-tiniest hint of a mischievous grin. “How the hell would we know? Which one’s the umpire, the speck of dust on the right, or the tiny smudge that's walking over to the other smudge?”

“When did you get to be such a wise guy, huh?” asked Steve, as two smudges gestured at one another in what appeared to be heated disagreement on the gravel below. Ah, the thrill of the good old ball game, he thought.

“I’ve always been wise,” replied Bucky. “Like Yoda, but with good hair.”

“Can't argue with that,” said Steve, settling in against Bucky’s side. “I’m sorry the game turned out pretty lousy.”

“Actually,” replied Bucky, his fingers tangling though Steve’s hair, “these seats are kinda growing on me.”

Carefully discarding his baseball cap, Bucky turned to Steve, softly pressing their lips together, warm and familiar. Despite himself, Steve made the quietest whimper in response.

Steve drew nearer to him, his hands finding their way beneath Bucky’s comfortable grey shirt, fingertips combing over the soft sprinkle of hair across his chest. Bucky shifted into Steve’s lap, humming with pleasure as he left kisses over Steve’s beard, and down his neck.

A wave of pleasure sparkled at Steve’s core as Bucky’s hand glided feather-light over his trousers — and the crowd all around them erupted into a chorus of thunderous cheer.

“What the hell?” asked Bucky, breaking their embrace just enough to squint down at the field.

“What?” puzzled Steve, still dazed with love. “We’re not on kiss cam, are we?”

“No, dummy, we won.” Bucky laughed softly to himself, shaking his head. “Son of a bitch, they did it.”

Steve stared down at the field in astonishment, where the little pale ants were jumping for joy and hugging each other, the crowd around them cheering with rapturous glee.

“And we missed it,” added Steve, adjusting his trousers, lest anyone notice his burgeoning arousal.

“Mmm, we sure did.” Bucky squeezed Steve’s thigh with his free hand, fixing his conspicuously tousled hair into a low ponytail with the other.

“Sorry, Buck.”

“Forget it, punk,” replied Bucky, pressing a kiss to Steve’s cheek. “We can watch the highlights on tv when we get home.”

“We’d have been able to actually see the whole game if we'd just watched it at home,” reasoned Steve.

“Nah,” said Bucky, “it was worth it.”


End file.
